Someone to Watch Over Me
by Pickwick12
Summary: The wartime diary of a woman named Anna who meets a man named Edwin Jarvis.
1. August 3, 1943

**Someone to Watch Over Me**

_**August 3, 1943**_

I turned twenty-eight yesterday. This is the third birthday I have known since war came to Budapest. I begged my father not to make a fuss, but he wouldn't be reasoned with. We had Mr. Bokori from next door and Mr. and Mrs. Feher from across the street over for dinner and a small party. The Solyms have gone to America. I cannot lie to my diary and claim that I did not miss their son Adorjan's company. I know that at one time, my father hoped we might make a life together, but we never cared for each other in that way. Still, I missed his ready laugh and his quick wit.

The crowning moment of the evening was when my father went to his room and pulled out this dairy. I had not expected to receive any presents. It was more than enough to have a reason to put on my green dress and smile at my neighbors. Money is scarce. But you know how Papa is, or, rather, you will. He handed me this leatherbound volume that he's been hiding since last October. Mr. Vadas from the bookshop sold it to him just before—before the bombing that destroyed the rest of his stock.

Mrs. Feher brought over her phonograph, and we finished the night by dancing to an American song called "Someone to Watch Over Me." Mr. Bokori twirled me around the living room with admirable solemnity, and admit that I did not regret my father's insistence on a celebration.

When the guests had finally left after drinks and embraces, Papa took me onto his knee as if I were all of eight instead of twenty-eight. "My daughter," he said, "you grow more beautiful each year."

I snorted. "You know very well that I am short and sharp-featured and overly outspoken."

"Yes," he agreed, smiling, "just as your mother was." I put my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

"I cannot write in the book, you know," I said. "It's far too lovely. I will save it for better days, when I have something beautiful to write."

"No," Papa answered with unexpected vehemence, "you are a writer, and you must write. Why do you think I didn't marry you off to one of the good boys from the synagogue years ago?"

"Because I'd have run away and joined the circus," I replied.

He laughed, but turned serious after a moment. "There is more in you," he said, "more than Adam Tisza or Joszua Toth could ever understand. I would rather have you single all your days, with only your pen for company, than unhappy with someone who could not understand you. Still, I wonder if I was wrong. These are difficult times, and if anything were to happen to me—" He couldn't finish, and I didn't answer. I simply put my head on his shoulder and let him hold me. There was nothing I could say. I am glad I am not married, but the days are dark.

I went to bed after a while, with this diary next to me on the pillow. I am a writer, or, at least, I was before the war. Now I work in Mr. Jonas's shop. Perhaps, some day, when my city is no longer more rubble than building, I will be a writer again. For now, I will do as my father asked and write what I can.

I awoke early this morning and fixed coffee, as I usually do. Papa was asleep in his easy chair with the Talmud by his side. He'd never made it to his bed, which wasn't unusual. While the water came to boil, I put on my gray wool dress with red buttons. I've had to repair it so many times it's a wonder it still holds together.

After drinking enough coffee to wake me up, I walked the three quarters of a mile to Jonas's establishment, one of the few shops left standing in the area. Mr. Jonas is given to pessimism and often says it's only a matter of time until a bomb finds it, but I prefer to hope otherwise.

I opened the store as I usually do, turning on lights and making sure everything was in its proper place. Before the war, we used to work in pairs or even three at a time. Now it's all Jonas can do to afford me. It's all right, though. The shop isn't large, and I enjoy my own company well enough. It's a good thing, too, because I didn't get a stitch of business until eleven o'clock, when Mrs. Halasz came in to buy her husband a white shirt. I was glad for the company, but the whole transaction took less than ten minutes, and I was left alone once again.

That was when something truly unexpected happened, and for once, it was a good something. Wartime makes one a little leery of surprises. I was rearranging the cufflink display for the tenth time when a stranger passed the front window, turned, and came back to the door. Mr. Jonas's bell dinged as the man entered, and I looked up.

He was very tall and fearfully handsome. I promise I'm not writing fiction. He wasn't in uniform, but I could tell he wasn't Hungarian. I'm not sure how to explain why; it's something about the bearing. Once you've met as many GIs as I have, you get used to the signs.

"Good morning," he said. He wasn't American. The accent was British. But the voice was the important part. It was like chocolate made out of velvet, which sounds rather disgusting, now that I think about it. His voice was not disgusting. I wanted him to speak more.

"Good morning," I said, self-conscious about my heavily-accented English. "May I help you find something?"

"A tie to go with a black suit," he answered readily.

I studied him for a moment. I make it a point to take customers' appearances into consideration when I suggest articles of clothing. He had gray-green eyes, brown hair, and the most charming smile I'd ever seen. Of course, you can't match clothing to a smile. But I took note of it nonetheless.

"How about this?" I handed him a tie with diagonal stripes in slate gray and seaweed green that echoed his eyes.

"May I try it?" he asked. I nodded. I confess, in that moment I wanted desperately to tie it for him. Silly. He walked over to the mirror and methodically knotted the piece of fabric around his neck in a Windsor Knot.

Now comes an embarrassing detail that I wouldn't tell anyone except my private diary. He caught me staring at him. His back was to me, but I was watching his reflection in the mirror. I didn't mean to. I could offer plenty of excuses, like the fact that we get few strangers in my part of Budapest or that I hadn't laid eyes on a man I didn't know for some time, but the plain truth was that I thought he was gorgeous.

He turned around quickly, and I tried to avert my eyes, but I knew he'd caught me. "This is a very lovely tie," he said.

"You are a very lovely man," I wanted to say, but I didn't. I'm sure I was blushing crimson.

"I'll take it," he said, but he was looking at me instead of at the tie. I went to the counter and waited, and he came over with money in his hand. He was at least a foot taller than I am.

"What is your name?" he asked, as I was making out a receipt.

"Anna," I answered.

"I'm Edwin Jarvis," he said. "May I see you again?"

It's a good thing I was only holding a piece of paper, because I was so surprised I dropped it onto the floor in front of the counter.

"Sorry," I said quickly, coming around to pick it up.

"No, no, let me," he said, smiling.

I went back to my place, trying to collecting myself. "I would—like very much to see you again," I said.

"I'll come back tomorrow," he replied. "Goodbye, Miss Anna." He dipped his head as he left, and I received a final smile, just for me.

I do not believe in fate, and I do not believe in love at first sight. I do, however, want to see Mr. Jarvis again. I am trying to sleep, but I can't stop imagining myself tying his tie for him. Perhaps twenty-eight is the year I grow silly.


	2. August 4, 1943

_**August 4, 1943**_

We argued. We argued over Ibsen, of all things. I guess I should have realized I couldn't know a man for more than half an hour without disagreeing about something, but I'll start at the beginning.

Last night, when I got home from the shop, my father was in his study with Mr. Kovacs. It's not unusual, especially these days, for him to be with men from the synagogue until late hours. Such is the life of a rabbi. More often than not, he sends them home with money for their hungry children, whether we can spare it or not. As long as we have food on our own table, he will not hesitate to help the desperate with both his counsel and his resources. I did not see Papa before I took to bed, so I did not tell him about my English stranger.

This morning, I awoke with no small amount of excitement. Perhaps it's evidence of how monotonous my life has become that I felt so much joy over the prospect of seeing Mr. Jarvis again, but I couldn't help it. I wondered what on earth he could mean by wanting to come back to a tiny shop just to see a diminutive, sharp-tongued rabbi's daughter.

I wore pink. The dress is a bit faded now, but what do I own that isn't? The pattern I used to sew it, just before the war, said some nonsense about minimizing the waist and accenting the figure. Well, I am no Claudette Colbert, and no manner of sewing wizardly is going to make me so.

I kissed my father goodbye. He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept well, but he smiled in his usual gentle way. "Is that a new dress?"

I laughed. "Yes, Papa. Three years ago."

He looked hard at me for a second, with his arm around my shoulders. "There's something different. Perhaps it's your face that's new."

I blushed. "Don't be silly, Abba," and I was gone, smiling and blushing as I hurried out the door.

All morning, I waited. I made a few sales of buttons and collars, but my heart wasn't in it. My eyes kept straying toward the door, looking for the tall form of the man who had promised to return.

Finally, just past noon, when I was alone, he came. This time, he was in uniform. I'm afraid I stood and watched him walk in like a short, wide-eyed Jewish statue. He was carrying a bouquet and a stack of books.

"Good afternoon, Miss Anna," he said, stopping in front of me to peer down and smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Jarvis," I answered. He handed me the flowers, which were white and purple Hungarian crocuses. I very nearly asked him what they were for. No one has given me flowers since Peter Olaszs's ill-fated attempt to woo me in secondary school.

"Thank you," I said, trying to force myself to meet his eyes.

"You're welcome," he answered easily. "I also brought you some books. I noticed you had a volume of Ibsen on the counter yesterday, and I assumed you liked to read. I hope I wasn't being presumptuous."

"I do like to read," I answered. "Let me put these in water, and I'll come back." I turned to go to the washroom, glad for a moment to collect myself.

Was it possible, I wondered, that a good-looking man was standing in the front of my shop, had just given me flowers, and was prepared to hand me a stack of books? I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and wondered if he would be gone when I emerged with the flowers arranged in the only thing I could find, a glass coffee mug. Then again, I thought, if it was all a figment of my imagination, the crocuses could hardly be real. But they were, as vibrant and alive as Mr. Jarvis's wonderful eyes.

I took a few deep breaths and came back out into the front room of the store, placing the flowers carefully on the counter. "My name is Edwin," said my visitor, coming to stand close to me. "Will you call me that?"

"Ed-win," I intoned, trying to get the inflection right. "I promise, I read English better than I speak it," I said, since I had noticed that the books he'd brought were in his native tongue.

"Do you like Ibsen?" he asked, picking up my book of plays from the edge of the counter, where I kept it to occupy me when no customers were present.

"Yes," I said readily. "Do you?"

"I don't take such a desperate view of the human condition," he said. "I preferred _A Doll's House _to _Hedda Gabler_. There's no denying the beauty of the words, though."

"I see it the opposite way," I said, growing enthusiastic and losing my reticence. "I find _A Doll's House _irritating and _Hedda Gabler_ inspiring." It's been a long time since I've been able to talk books with someone other than my father, and I'm particularly consumed with the Norwegian playwright at the moment.

"How so?" asked Edwin, leaning on the counter.

"I blame Nora Helmer for her choices," I said quickly. "She chose her life and then blamed everyone else for it. Hedda, on the other hand, took responsibility for herself."

He shook his head. "But don't you think Hedda's final decision is the supreme act of giving up?"

"No," I said sharply, "I don't. I wouldn't make the same choice to end my life, but the intent of the play is that she's strong rather than weak."

The moment I said it, I regretted my vehemence. I get overly excited when I'm talking about books, something I undoubtedly inherited from my father. Here I was, with a pleasant man who was willing to enter into a conversation about Ibsen, of all things, and I was contradicting him with the whole force of my personality. Why, I wondered, couldn't I be demure for even a few minutes of time, until we'd gotten to know each other, at least?

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, feeling myself blushing. "I'm overly opinionated."

To my surprise, the man in front of me laughed lightly. "I haven't had anyone to discuss my reading with for a very long time, and I like strong opinions. Life is a bit insipid without them. Wouldn't you say?"

"Yes," I agreed, smiling.

After that, I brought chairs out of the back room, and the two of us sat down. Mr. Jarvis—Edwin—handed me his books, which consisted of two volumes of poetry, a novel, and a book of philosophy.

"I've finished these," he said. "I—thought you might enjoy them. "

"You plan to come back to find out what I think of them, then?" I asked, growing bolder.

"I do," he answered readily, "if I'm allowed."

"Four books is a priceless gift in Budapest right now," I said seriously.

"I didn't bring them to earn your friendship," he said gently, "but I'd like it all the same."

I looked over at him and smiled, feeling strangely comfortable. "I'd like that too."

We spoke for another hour, comparing our taste in books and plays and films. I soon realized he was an optimist, which conflicted pleasantly with my tendency toward determined realism. We argued extensively, and I enjoyed myself more than I can say.

Finally, when mid-afternoon approached, Mr. Jarvis stood. "I'm afraid I have to get back to my assignment," he said.

I stood up too, noticing again that I didn't even reach his shoulder. "This has been very enjoyable," I said, growing shy.

"I think so too," he agreed. Then, he took his big hands and put them on either side of my face, leaned down, and kissed my forehead. "I would like to spend many more hours arguing with you, Anna."

"Me too," I answered, hardly aware of what I was saying.

As he'd said the previous day, he simply replied, "I'll come back tomorrow." I grinned foolishly as I watched him leave.

There is a man coming to see me tomorrow. He is tall and handsome, and he loves books as much as I do. I like his hands. They remind me of home.


	3. August 5, 1943

_**August 5, 1943**_

"Anna, Mr. Lazar needs you at the hotel today." My boss's smiling face greeted me with this news as soon as I reached the shop this morning. I usually don't mind going to Mr. Lazar's tailor shop; in fact, I never mind. He hasn't asked for me for weeks. Of all days, he had to pick this one.

I should explain. Mr. Lazar is part of our synagogue, and he owns the tailor shop inside the largest hotel in Budapest. Mr. Jonas supplies merchandise for him to sell, and sometimes, when business is good at the hotel or if one of the regular tailors is out, he loans me to Mr. Lazar. It's a compliment. My sewing skills are very good.

"Is it absolutely necessary?" I asked, realizing that I had no way to contact Mr. Jarvis and let him know I would be gone when he came.

Mr. Jonas raised an eyebrow. "I can't imagine what could possibly make you want to stay in our quiet little corner of the world when you could escape to the glittering lights of downtown."

"Very well," I said, not wanting to arouse more suspicion and be forced to provide an explanation.

Mr. Jonas gave me cab fare—an extravagance, but he's a kind man, and we live in dangerous times. Normally, I would have enjoyed a ride across the city in the early morning, but today all I could think about was my disappointment and how confused Edwin would be.

My thoughts quieted when I reached the lobby of the hotel, occupied instead by immediate concerns. As I walked past the row of desks, the hotel employees nodded and smiled. They all knew me. My shoes clattered against the shiny floor, and I straightened the jacket of my navy blue suit and squared my shoulders. Mr. Lazar's shop is a smart sort of place.

I opened the glass double doors and walked in with intention. "Good morning!" said Mr. Lazar immediately. He was standing behind the counter, a sure sign that he was understaffed. "I'm glad you've come. No one has a way with customers like you do."

I smiled, but I wanted to scream. Apparently, I wasn't even needed for my tailoring skills. Instead of having another pleasant conversation with Mr. Jarvis, I was to stand behind Mr. Lazar's counter and try to sell wares while hotel guests waited for their clothing to be repaired. Still, the Lazars were friends, and I didn't want to be unkind. I took my place, and Mr. Lazar went to the back of the store to supervise the completion of neverending tailoring orders.

At Mr. Jonas's shop, no one minds my reading, but I don't bring books to the hotel. No matter how slow the day is, I stand and smile and try to look as if I enjoy nothing more than waiting behind a counter with nothing to do.

Except, that's not how it went at all. I'd been there barely ten minutes when the lobby door opened and my first customer came in. He was tall, slim, and wore an amused expression that turned to confusion immediately.

"Are there two of you?" he asked.

"Ed-win," I intoned carefully, aware that I was simultaneously blushing and grinning. "There is only one of me, but I am very—what do you say?—sneaky."

"So I see," he answered, smiling as he approached the counter. "I've brought a pair of trousers with a loose hem."

I leaned my face closer to him across the wooden surface in front of me and spoke softly. "If you keep them for another two hours, I'll hem them during my lunchbreak."

He nodded. "I'll meet you on the benches in front of the hotel." He departed, and I watched his back. He had very nice shoulders. I wondered if I had been forward. I didn't much care.

* * *

><p>One of the advantages of Lazar's shop is that it closes from 12:00 to 1:00 for lunch. As soon as the boss had come out to dismiss me, I grabbed my handbag with the small sewing kit inside and dashed out to meet Mr. Jarvis without even thinking of food. Thankfully, Edwin is apparently more practical than I am. I found him seated on a bench with a large basket of edibles by his side.<p>

"Hello," he said, rising.

"Hello," I answered, holding my hands out for the trousers he held and taking my seat on the same bench.

"I hope you don't mind a picnic," he continued. "I thought you'd be hungry while you work."

I took out my needle and thread and began to sew. "This won't take more than ten minutes, and then I'd be very pleased to eat a picnic with you, Mr. Jarvis."

"I'm very grateful," he answered, "but still wondering why you're here."

I looked up from my sewing for a moment. "My father is a rabbi. The owner of the shop where we met is from our synagogue, as is the owner of the tailor's shop in the hotel."

"We—take care of each other," I added, "especially now."

"I see," he said.

"What do you do when you're in England?" I asked, my eyes firmly on my stitches. "Are you always a soldier?"

"Far from it," he replied. "I trained as a butler." I was surprised enough to drop my needle. I'd only ever known butlers through stories, and I thought of them as rotund figures with permanently distant expressions.

"I've never seen a butler before," I said, looking up.

"What do you think?" he asked, smiling.

"I'm wondering if you're as good at cooking as Mr. Jeeves from the PG Wodehouse stories."

His face lit up. "There may be few things in my life that I can say with absolute certainty, Miss Anna, but I can tell you that I am, indeed, _very _good at cooking, especially souffles."

I laughed. "I would like to try some of your cooking some time."

"I'd like that too," he said.

We kept talking about nothing until I finished his slacks, and then we spent the next half hour eating the picnic, which contained an overabundance of delicacies that made me begin to suspect—well, when a man spends that kind of money on a picnic just because he runs into a girl in a hotel tailor's shop—she starts to get ideas about how he might be feeling about her.

But I'm getting sleepy, so I'll stop speculating for now.


	4. August 6, 1943

_**August 6, 1943**_

"Papa, I've met a man," I said, as soon as I'd gotten up this morning and put on my yellow dress. I hadn't actively tried to conceal my new friendship from him, but he'd been busy, and I hadn't known how to communicate my thoughts.

"What sort of man?" he asked mildly, between sips of coffee, a passion we both share.

"An Englishman," I said, "attaché to a general. He's—not Jewish." I hadn't quite meant to say that. If Edwin was just a casual acquaintance, what did it matter? As I heard myself say the words, I realized that it mattered very much.

"I knew it would be so," said Papa, as placidly as before.

"What?" I asked, looking up from putting sugar into my cup.

"I pray a great deal, my Anna," he continued, "and sometimes I hear answers." He put his hand on top of mine. "You know the rumors as well as I do. It won't be long before Budapest isn't a safe place for us any more. This man will take you far away, where you will be protected."

"I've only just met him," I said, indignation and confusion and surprise swirling around my mind.

"These are bad times," my father answered. "Long ago, I wished for something different for you, but this is how it will be, how it is meant to be."

"I don't even know if he likes me, Papa," I retorted.

"You're blushing," he said.

"What if I don't like him?"

"Still blushing."

I laughed and shook my head, trying to be irritated, but too happy to manage it. I could hardly believe Mr. Jarvis could possibly come to really care for me, but it had been a long time since I'd seen my father wrong about anything important. At the very least, I was glad he didn't object to the idea of the tall Englishman—_my_ tall Englishman. Maybe.

I put on my deep pink lipstick and laughed at myself for wondering if Edwin liked the color. _Anna, you're acting like a teenaged schoolgirl _I remonstrated with myself. But I couldn't help it. I kept remembering the end of our picnic. We hadn't touched, but he'd smiled at me, the kind of smile that people only have when they're looking at their favorite thing in the world. I've stored the image in my mind, where it will rest always, no matter what happens.

I made my way to Mr. Jonas's shop, as I always do, glad to be back at my usual post for the day. Mr. Jarvis had said he would come if he could, though his day would be busy. I tried to reconcile myself to the likelihood that he wouldn't, but I couldn't help feeling disappointed as the hours wore on, slow and monotonous.

Finally, a half hour before closing, a familiar silhouette filled the doorway. I was glad I didn't have any customers, because I grinned like a ninny, and I could feel myself going red again. "Good afternoon, Anna," said Edwin, smiling and removing his hat. "I've discovered a solution to our problem," he continued.

"What problem?" I asked, baffled.

"The problem of our not seeing each other for the entire weekend," he said.

"Oh?" I said, "and what solution do you suggest?"

"There's an officers' party at my hotel on Saturday night," he said. "I would—be very honored if you would accompany me."

My breath caught in my throat. This was different from casual visits in slow shops and impromptu lunches. This meant—

"You actually like me?" I blurted out, not particularly elegantly.

Edwin moved closer, looming over me across the counter in what I can only describe as a highly pleasant way. "I like you very much indeed." Now he was blushing.

"I like you too," I said, figuring that as I'd made a start, I might as well finish.

"Does that mean you'll come?" he asked after a moment of silly grinning.

I nodded. "But only after dark, when the Sabbath ends."

"I understand," he said. "I'll come for you the moment the light disappears."

"Here," I said, pulling out a scrap of receipt paper and writing my address on it. "This is where I live." He put it into his breast pocket.

"I have to go," he said, still smiling. "I'm—I'm ever so pleased." I nodded, bewildered and delighted and a lot of other things all at once.

I must stop writing and sew, for the Sabbath is almost here, and I haven't worn my best dress in ages.


	5. August 7, 1943

_Author's Note: The Jewish Sabbath takes place from sundown Friday to the appearance of three stars in the sky on Saturday and is a day of rest in which many activities classified as work are prohibited._

_**August 7, 1943**_

This morning, I awoke and went through the motions of the Shabbat, accompanying my father to synagogue, as I always do. I confess that my mind was split between the reading of Scripture and my plans for the evening. Papa always says that God understands our preoccupations. During prayer, I took time to thank Him for Edwin, surely a gift I could never have anticipated. I also prayed that I would have courage to tell my father about the party. It was one thing for him to give his blessing to his daughter's friendship with an English officer, another for him to be comfortable with her attending a party with the man. I am not a child, and my father is not authoritarian, but I dreaded disappointing the man I love so very much.

We ate our noon meal at the home of the Fehers, who talked politics with my father and tried to talk them with me, though my mind was elsewhere. "My daughter is preoccupied these days," said Papa, by way of explanation of my failure to attend to the conversation.

"We all are," Mrs. Feher agreed, patting my hand kindly, "and Anna is out in the world, with her job and her education. You must be very proud, Benjamin." Few people call my father, the rabbi, by his given name, but the Fehers are our oldest and dearest friends.

"Certainly I am," he answered smoothly, but he fixed me with a pointed look from across the table, and I could tell he perceived that something was on my mind.

We were shooed home by our hostess soon after lunch, because she observed the signs that my father was weary after his morning work. I planned to give him a few hours to sleep (and myself a few hours to gather my courage) before I told him about my plans. Instead, as I turned to leave our front room for my bedroom, his voice accosted me. "Anna." I turned back and found him smiling. "Come and unburden yourself of whatever secret had you preoccupied during synagogue and nearly unresponsive during the meal."

"I'm sorry, Papa," I said.

"That is an inauspicious beginning," he answered drily, but he opened his arms and held me for a moment.

"Mr. Jarvis—the man I told you about—has invited me to a party this evening." I let out the information rather breathlessly once my father had let me go.

"Is that all?" he asked mildly and with some amusement.

I punched his chest lightly with my right fist. "Abba, I have not been out with a man in years, let alone an English officer you haven't met. My apprehension was hardly unreasonable."

"I told you I knew it would be this way," he answered. "And I expect that when he comes to fetch you tonight, the problem of me not knowing him can easily be remedied." I blanched a little bit. In my surprise at being asked out, I hadn't thought of this, and consequently, I hadn't warned Edwin.

My Papa, always frighteningly good at reading me, understood my thoughts. "You may be twenty-eight," he said, "but I do wish to meet the man. You can hardly blame me for that."

"I don't," I answered, kissing his cheek. "Now go to sleep, or you won't be in fit condition to meet anyone." His arm lingered around me for a moment longer before he went to his room.

I, too, went to my room and tried to sleep, but the sun seemed to take longer than usual to fall lower in the sky, the signal that Shabbat would soon end, and I would be free to ready myself for the evening. I'd prepared everything I would need the night before, and my deep blue dress hung on my closet door, while my lipstick and face powder sat expectantly on my dresser. In the mean time, I read the poetry of Keats, one of the volumes Edwin had given me.

_Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—_

_Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,_

_And watching, with eternal lids apart,_

_Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,_

_The moving waters at their priestlike task_

_Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,_

_Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask_

_Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—_

_No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,_

_Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,_

_To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,_

_Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,_

_Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,_

_And so live ever—or else swoon to death._

Beautiful, like the happy days when I'd been a university student, and the war hadn't yet come to us.

Finally, the sun set, and I knew Edwin would be watching so that he could come for me as quickly as possible. I gazed out the window and breathed a prayer of thanks that three stars appeared quickly, twinkling above me as if to offer their approval.

As fast as I've ever done anything, I put on the dress, which cinched my waist and made my legs look a little longer than they are—not that there's much to be done there—and painted my lips with crimson. I was pinning my dark hair atop my head when I heard the sound of a car approaching, followed by a knock at the door. I'd wanted to be the first to greet Edwin, but I had a mouth full of hairpins and a head of tousled curls.

Our house is not a large one, and I heard the door open and the exchange that followed. "Good evening." Edwin's voice was quiet and deferential, as usual.

"Good evening," said my father. "My name is Benjamin, but I suppose my status as Anna's father is the only salient point at the moment."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Sir." I blushed crimson at my father's words, but Mr. Jarvis's answer sounded good humored, even amused.

"My daughter will be ready presently," Papa continued. "I would tell you to take care of her, but she's well able to do that. You had, however, better show her a good time. She doesn't get out often enough since the troubles."

"I intend to," said Edwin. Just then, I emerged, hoping my hair was firmly affixed to my head. I'd rushed quite a bit in an effort to cut short the awkwardness.

"Anna," said Papa, "your officer has arrived."

"Father!" I said, blushing again.

Edwin stood beside him, grinning his face off. "Here," he said, holding out his arm. "I've been sternly instructed to make you enjoy yourself, and I plan to do so."

I curled my hand around his proffered limb and rolled my eyes at my father. "Good night, Papa."

"Good night," he answered calmly, "and I'm glad to have met you," he said to Edwin, who nodded before shepherding me out the door.

"I'm sorry," I said, as soon as the door closed behind us.

"I'm afraid I'm driving us," said Edwin apologetically, leading me to a black car. "All the usual drivers were busy. Would you prefer to sit in the back or the front?"

"Certainly the front, with you," I said. He opened the door, and I sat down inside, marveling at the beautiful upholstery and luxurious comfort.

Edwin took his place in the driver's seat and turned to me. "No need to apologize," he said sweetly. "I'd hoped to meet your father tonight. If I had a daughter who was going out with a man for the first time, I'd want to size him up."

He drove through the dark streets, and I tried to enjoy the ride into the expensive part of the city, but I kept finding my gaze drawn to my companion, who wore his dress uniform, with its impeccable tailoring and glittering accents. I'd seen plenty of well-dressed soldiers. None of them had ever made me feel the way Edwin did.

"You look beautiful," he said after a while, sounding nervous, his eyes firmly on the road.

"Thank you," I answered. I suppose a lady should have left it there, to take her compliment demurely and lapse into blushing silence, but I didn't. "You look more handsome than any man I've ever seen."

He coughed, but recovered presently and answered playfully, "You may live to regret that. We're attending a party full of men in uniform."

"I doubt it," I replied.

I would have been happy to spend the entire evening in Edwin's singular company, but we arrived at the hotel soon enough, and he helped me out of the car and left it with a smiling valet. This time, I took his arm out of more than companionship. I was anxious, I confess. I'd never been to a party full of sophisticated foreign soldiers. I would have voyaged to the end of the world with Mr. Jarvis by my side, but I couldn't completely shake my nerves.

I'd only ever been to the hotel's grand ballroom during the day, when it was plain and empty, the shell of festive potential. As we entered, however, it was a blaze of light and sound and movement, filled with men in uniform and women in dresses worth more than a month of my wages.

"Jarvis! You made it!" The voice was loud, and my companion and I turned to find ourselves face-to-face with a short man who had a drink in his hand.

"General," said my companion politely, as several people around stopped and watched. The man who'd accosted us was important, I could tell, and I surmised that he was the general Edwin served. "This is Miss—"

Edwin was cut off in the middle of my name by the general's drunken voice. "I know who she is. She's that Jewish whore from the shop downstairs."

Instantly, I felt my stomach clench and my cheeks flush, but I kept my head high. I was mortified but determined not to show it. Amid the laughter of some around us and the surprised expressions of others, I let go of Edwin's arm and walked through the sea of people and toward the balcony that I knew was just off the ballroom. I was deeply relieved to find that the double doors to it were closed but unlocked, and I slipped through and closed them behind me.

Tears came then, and I couldn't stop them. I leaned against the railing and let the cool evening breeze brush over my heated face. I was ashamed and angry and hurt all at one time. _Anna, _I reproached myself, _you should have known this night wasn't for you._ Within five minutes, I heard a light tapping at the door, followed by someone joining me on the balcony. I didn't turn around.

"Anna." The voice was Edwin's. "I'm so terribly sorry."

"It's not your fault," I said between tears, with my back to him. "I'm sorry I shamed you in front of your superior. I should have known."

"Nonsense." His voice was firmer than I'd ever heard it. "He's the one who should be ashamed."

"You say that," I continued, "but I'm not ignorant. I know how most of the world views my people."

Edwin came closer, and in an instant, he'd put his arm around my waist and pulled me around forcefully to face him. The gesture wasn't a harsh one, but I could feel how much stronger he was than I am.

He cupped my face with both hands. "I wish you'd stayed around a moment longer—to hear me tell him—tell them all—how proud I am to be here with you."

"You don't mean that," I said miserably. "You're trying to be nice."

"Stop being so stubborn," he answered, pulling me into his embrace and cradling my head against his chest (it didn't reach very high; as I've mentioned, he's quite tall).

"I like being stubborn," I pouted, very nearly comforted back into good humor.

"So I've observed," he answered drily, tenderly stroking my hair and causing part of it to come unpinned and fall down my back.

"You'll have to take me home," I said. "You've ruined me."

"I have a much better idea." The mischief in his tone caused me to look up into his face, where I found a twinkle in his eyes. "Do you trust me, Anna?" I nodded. With that, he took my hand and led me back off the balcony and into the edge of the ballroom where, thankfully, the party had moved on without us.

Walking so quickly I could barely keep up, Edwin took me the shortest way out of the room and into the corridors of the hotel. The route was one I didn't recognize, but it eventually ended at an unassuming little door that led into a tiny courtyard. He pushed it open for me and ushered me outside. The courtyard was empty, save for grass and a few wildflowers, but the moon shone down on it cheerfully, and the stars above cast silver light.

Edwin took off his jacket and sat down on the ground, pulling off his shiny black shoes and socks. Following his example, I sat down next to him and unpinned the remainder of my hair and took off my pumps, relishing the feeling of grass against my bare feet.

"Come," he said, putting his arm around me.

I snuggled into his side and rested my head against him. "Thank you for defending me."

He sighed. "In a perfect world, you wouldn't need defending."

"In a perfect world," I retorted, "there would be no soldiers in Budapest, and I'd never have met you."

"Arguing already," he murmured, putting his head on top of mine. We sat in silence for a long time, watching the stars and enjoying the low sound of the wind whistling around us.

"What are you thinking of?" Edwin finally asked.

"Keats," I answered. I lifted my head to look into his face. "Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art."

"Nobody—"he began, as if he wasn't quite sure how to say what he meant, "Nobody could be as steadfast as you were walking out of that ballroom tonight, as grand and imperious as a queen."

"Thank you," I answered. "I've practiced that look many times on customers who slagged off Mr. Jonas's prices." He threw back his head and laughed.

In the end, I didn't dance today, and I didn't really attend my first officers' party. Instead, I spent an hour in a courtyard with bare feet and a man's arm around me. He hasn't kissed me, but I wouldn't mind if he did.


	6. August 8, 1943

_**August 8, 1943**_

Last night, when Edwin brought me home, Papa came out of the house in his robe. "I'm inclined to approve of you," he said drily to my companion, who had gotten out of the car to open my door for me. "This is earlier than I was expecting."

Edwin smiled and nodded. "Anna was flagging, and I didn't want to tire her out." By that time, I'd come around the car and stood next to him, no doubt grinning idiotically. "Good night," he said, bending down and kissing my forehead unabashedly, in full view of my father.

"Good night," I said. "And thank you." He winked at me and got into the car, speeding off into the dark night.

"When should I expect grandchildren?" my father asked, earning him a light punch in the arm as I accompanied him into the house. "The man is clearly taken with you."

"He's very respectful," I said.

"I have little doubt of that, my dear," said Papa. "I'd like to be a fly on the wall to see what happens if any man ever tries something with you." I grinned and sat beside him on the sofa.

"The question is," he continued after a while, "whether you are taken with him."

"I think—I might be," I answered.

"Good," he said, then got up to go to his bed.

A mother might have asked about the evening. She'd have probably made me tell every detail of the party and the horrible confrontation and the way Edwin had comforted me and how the grass of the courtyard had felt beneath my bare feet. My father did not ask any of those things, but what he did say was, I thought, absolutely perfect.

I tried to go to bed, but sleep was a long time coming. I was too happy. It wasn't a frenzied kind of happiness; it was a quieter kind, like the warm euphoria of finding something you've lost and have been looking for a very long time.

This morning, I awoke to hear my father singing while he cooked breakfast. Mr. Jonas's shop is closed on Sundays because so many of our Gentile customers go to church, so I always have the day to do as I please. I knew I wouldn't see Edwin, but I didn't really mind too much. I've always enjoyed spending time by myself and getting lost in my own rambling thoughts. Besides, I needed time to sift through my thoughts and feelings about the week.

That's why, toward midday, I took a walk in the city. I knew very well that it might soon be too dangerous to move around Budapest freely, as it had been sometimes already, so I took advantage of the relative quiet and peace.

I walked down to the flower market and then through the stalls where jovially yelling men tried to sell large cuts of meat to red-faced housewives. Without really meaning to, I walked far enough to be in the part of the city that contains Edwin's hotel.

I wondered what he might be doing. He'd told me that he attended a Protestant church in the morning, but I had no idea what his afternoon would contain. Perhaps he was busy working; did officers have to work on Sunday? After all, war doesn't stop for the weekend. I realized I knew very little about Edwin's actual duties, and I determined that I would remedy my ignorance when I saw him again.

Truthfully, I couldn't get my mind off Edwin Jarvis for any length of time. It wasn't a loss of identity or autonomy or personhood on my part. I'm strong enough; I don't need to prove that to myself. But he is tall and kind and funny and gentle and all the things I haven't found in a man (other than my father) for a very long time.

_I miss him_ I admitted to myself some time after the noon hour had passed. It felt silly to miss someone I'd seen the night before, and perhaps it was. But love is allowed to be silly.

Love.

I think I am falling in love with Mr. Jarvis—with his voice and his hands and his wonderful eyes. And with the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention. There's something in me that wants to resist, because it's scary to give in, at least it is for me. I like feeling invulnerable. Perhaps Papa is right, however, when he says that we can't truly love without risking part of ourselves. And, I am learning, there can be joy in the risking.

Tonight I have spent the evening trying to read the novel Edwin gave me, _Great Expectations _by Dickens. Instead, my mind keeps wondering to the feeling of my head resting against his shoulder and the heady weight of his strong arm around me.

I had not—I gave up ages ago thinking I would ever find a man who didn't mind my sharp opinions and short stature, but Jarvis leapt right over not minding. I think—I think he actually likes how quickly I speak and the fact that when we're next to each other, we look like an art student's out of scale painting.

I keep telling myself that I can't know what's going to happen, that it doesn't make any sense to think about an uncertain and unknown future. But love is silly, and I am falling in love. I can't help it.

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you for the lovely reviews and feedback. Apologies for the delay in updating. I haven't been well, and Wednesday, February 25, I'm having my third surgery in a year. Hope to have another chapter up soon for you all. **


	7. August 9, 1943

_**August 9, 1943**_

I didn't think I was going to make it to work this morning. Oh, that makes it sound so mundane, when it wasn't mundane at all. Just a few minutes before I was to leave, three policemen came to our house. The police know my father and his position in the community, so I didn't think to much of it. As soon as I'd let them in, though, they started barking at Papa like they were giant dogs and he a defenseless puppy.

"Where is Almassy?"

"Gone to America."

"Marton is withholding taxes, isn't he?"

"No."

On and on, over and over, until I was red-faced with rage and it seemed they'd asked about every family in our synagogue. Papa kept his equilibrium, but I wasn't having charitable thoughts, let me tell you. Finally, after forty-five minutes, they left as abruptly as they'd come.

"What in the world was the purpose of that?" I asked furiously, breathing in and out as quickly as if I'd just taken a run.

"Calm yourself, My Child," Papa said gently. "It's only meant to intimidate us. I can handle verbal harassment quite well. Upsetting us is exactly what they mean to do."

"We should report them!" I said.

"To whom?" he asked. "Our kind have been barely welcome here for a long time, Anna." I could not deny it, so I kissed my father's cheek and left for work, using the long walk to Jonas's to calm my nerves.

I must say, it didn't work, and I was still shaken when I arrived, glad that I would be working alone. I went over every display in the store three times, straightening everything until it was geometrically perfect.

Finally, when I was starting my fourth circuit, Edwin came to me. I was so preoccupied with my own thoughts that I didn't even notice the shop door opening.

"Anna?"

I turned, surprised, and launched myself into his arms. He had the presence of mind and delicacy to simply put his arms around me and hold on tightly, and I had the indelicacy to start crying immediately. I had the fleeting thought that he was likely to think I was unhinged, given that I'd cried during our previous encounter, but he didn't seem to mind.

"My Anna," he said in his velvety voice. "My darling girl." He cradled my head in one of his large hands, and I closed my eyes and enjoyed his comfort. Finally, when my sobs quieted, he broached the question. "What has upset you so much, sweetheart?" Had I been in a less fragile emotional state, I would have snorted at the idea of someone calling me "sweetheart," but as it was, I almost purred like a kitten.

"The police came today," I said softly. "They questioned my father. I was scared they were going to take him away. It's—getting worse."

"I could protect you," said Edwin, very softly, so softly I could hardly hear him.

"What?" I asked, confused. I knew enough to be sure a British officer didn't wield that kind of power just because he wished to.

He gently pushed me a little way away, so he could look into my face. He left one hand on my shoulder and rubbed the other one across his face, obviously nervous. I silently drummed the toes of my worn-out boots into the wooden floor, feeling the strange tension that had suddenly filled the air between us.

"It's—I've been thinking about this for a few days, but I shouldn't even presume," he said. "You'll think I'm taking advantage."

"What in the world are you talking about?" I asked. I hadn't seen Edwin so uncertain before, and I wanted to put him out of his misery.

"Marriage," he choked out. "We could get married. As my family, you and your father would be protected."

"Why in the world would you agree to marry me?" I asked, no doubt staring at him like he'd sprouted wings.

"Agree to marry you," he said to the floor, "as if someone was twisting my arm." He shook his head and put his hands around my waist, pulling me closer. "Anna, I've wanted to marry you since the day I saw you through the shop window for the first time. I would marry you tomorrow or in ten years. It doesn't matter. I'm very sure." I lifted my hand to his face to wipe away the tears that were leaking from his wonderful eyes.

"Listen," he said. "I—I wouldn't take advantage. We could live like brother and sister, if you wanted. I just want to keep you safe."

"Brother and sister?" I laughed loudly. I'm sure it was a terribly inappropriate response, but I'm not much good at classic romance, really. Then, I kissed him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe and kissed him as hard as I could. He was surprised at first, but he quickly got into the spirit of the thing and lifted me off my feet after a moment.

"Thank you," I said, when we'd finally pulled back to catch breath and he'd set me back on the ground. "I thought my arms were going to break." It was his turn to laugh. "Now you see exactly how sisterly I feel," I continued.

"Do you really want to marry me?" he asked.

"I'll be honest with you," I said. "I've always been cautious. It's not at all like me to marry a man I've only known for a week. However, I've never lived through a war before, and I've never met you before. I know that I love you. I also know that I'm stubborn and opinionated, and I know it won't be easy.

Edwin smiled, and his eyes crinkled, and he took my hands. "The best things in life are never the easy things, Anna. If you let me, I'll make you Anna Jarvis, and I'll work every day of my life to keep you safe and help you find your happiness."

"Edwin," I said, "if you let me, I'll no doubt drive you to distraction and burn your toast. But I promise to make you laugh when you're sad and stay with you through thick and thin."

This time, he kissed me, and I melted into him like butter on a summer morning.

I suppose all of this will seem terribly romantic one day, in retrospect, when we're old and gray. But I am a reasonable woman, and I know it won't be easy. That's the real beauty of it, to me. Edwin isn't marrying me after a long, drawn-out courtship. He's sacrificing so very much, committing his life to a woman he's only known for a week, giving up every chance he might have at happiness with someone else to offer shelter and protection to someone he's chosen to love. Commitment is an unfashionable word for an unfashionable thing, but I have always thought it was the best thing of all.

He says I am giving up something too. If I am, then why does it feel like I'm gaining the whole world?

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><p><strong>AN: This chapter is dedicated to all the real-life wartime couples who found themselves in circumstances that forced them into acts of extraordinary and unusual sacrifice and commitment. **


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